


so he will never come but in delight (and speak with him before his ghost has flown)

by Whitmanesque



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Light Smut, M/M, Romance, sad boys during war, time travel gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:57:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitmanesque/pseuds/Whitmanesque
Summary: A lot can happen in a year.Well, ten months, technically speaking.





	so he will never come but in delight (and speak with him before his ghost has flown)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a poem by Wilfred Owen.

 

A lot can happen in a year.

Well, ten months, technically speaking.

First there was the jolt. The electric teal-fuchsia time warp that twisted through Klaus’ body. Then there was the rubble; harsh, gunmetal soot rubbed in his face. The whistle blared. The boots of men scuffed dirt. The musk of trench-sweat trepidation stained the air. Pain crept with a sharp crack through his back, settling as a sting.

Fuck, he thought. This is _not_ what was supposed to happen.

The briefcase opened. He was supposed to go back to his time, his family. Sure, the thought was laughable. They’d never been much of a family, but that didn’t make _this_ any more preferable. Weeks of torture. Blood. Duck tape. Kicking. Screaming. No one would miss me, he’d thought countless times that week. He’d been right. Water-boarding. Locked closets. Agents with creepy cartoon masks. Drugs. Ghosts. Lost brothers come back to life. And now …

“Get him dressed, let’s go, there’s no time for messing around,” the Drill Sergeant’s voice blared.

The fabric, starched, cold, stretched stiffly over his shaking frame.

Phantom pains.

The hand of a loveless father on his shoulder.

 

***

 

Okay, breathe. 

The bus jostled. The bus was a raging, seething, rat-infested hell with other men in uniforms. Klaus had never felt strong or even particularly manly. One does not when they grow up stealing their sisters skirts in the middle of the night so they can twirl in front of their bedroom mirror. Where dad couldn’t see. Where he could imagine other boys running their hands along the fabric, the small of his back, the slender bridge of his stomach. Clean sheets. Tulle. Lace. Someone who treads on the fox den of your ribcage with hands as soft as snow. Velvet. Cinnamon. All spice. Lemon-honey afterglow.

 Kiss me, he had thought on countless nights, tracing sharp hip-bones of figments that weren’t any less ghost-like than the rest, pretending he could have that kind of life. The one where he didn’t sneak out of windows, always waiting for dad to say it; you’re a disappointment, spineless, such a poor excuse for a child. He knew the rest of his siblings were subject to the same harsh treatment. That didn’t make the verbal assault hurt any less.

He could trick himself sometimes. When Hargreeves spoke with less of an edge to his monotone instructions the illusion was easier to preserve. He could summon a different version of the same man; a father who still maintained that same facile, but let him talk, let him breathe once in a while, let him nervously choke out Dad I uh, Hell, you knew I could always get those bastards from the Great Beyond, but uh, by the way I also really, _really_ , get boys. Like, a lot.  

The bus shook, throwing his head against the cracked window pane. He rubbed at the back of his hair. Greasy, stray, tendrils. Caked in forming scabs. Dry skin. A bath. God, what I wouldn’t give for a bath, he thought. His eyes trailed to the line of grey horizon. Nothingness. The ripped seat behind him offered no comfort; dirty, beige, a discarded belt buckle tangled behind his head like a faulty noose.

This is hell. _That_ was hell, and now this is hell again, but a different one, all different hells put together, never ending. What the fuck am I gonna do. How am I gonna get back? I need a plan. I need to think. I need something to take the edge off, he thought, itching at the back of his hand. He dug around his pocket in vain. There would be no paper to roll, no pill to throw back. Nothing sweet to get him through.

He turned. He looked how far there was to the back of the bus. How long it would take him to jump and make a run for it. That’s not so bad. Distance wise, at least. But the impact. Well, he thought, I’ve fallen off of roofs, buildings, that one high-rise apartment balcony into a full dumpster. He tightened his grip on the seat in front of him, willing his feet to move. But his feet weren’t the problem. His breath scrambled, skidded, scalded on an inhale and then proceeded to burn back into his throat. Breathe, he thought, don't panic, just breathe, just breathe, just …

There was a glance across the aisle.

The pair of eyes. Searching. Soft. Brown.

Gorgeous, Klaus almost stuttered at the clean-cut hair, the sharp nose, the gentle reassurance in his expression.

“Dave,” the other man said, “And you?”

“K-Klaus,” he managed, high-pitched and cracking, but an introduction nonetheless.

With a smile like that, he thought, maybe there’s a way to breathe here without coughing up blood.

He reached over, shaking Dave’s hand;

An exhale.

***

 

In the nighttime, he wondered how many men really slept in his room; how many he saw living, how many he saw dead, and how here, no matter how much of anything he took, the stench of Death didn’t allow for there to be a difference. The living were hollow, glassy-eyed, and transparent. The dead were sobbing, flesh-burnt, and begging to be killed. They were one in the same.

Ben smiled. The leather jacket was never worn out. His expression was forever young; sad, impish, and entirely too wise for his age.

 _“Jesus,”_ Klaus stuttered. The thin military sheets were wrapped around his trembling shoulders.

Ben snorted. “‘Fraid not, but you’re troubled, aren’t you?”

“What? Can’t I just, you know, wanna bond with my brother?”

Rain dripped steadily outside. The folds of the tent snapped and whirled in the wind. He shivered, pulling the covers to his chin as though that might help.

Ben sat at the foot of his bed, raising an eyebrow. “Clearly, something’s on your mind, am I right?”

Klaus winced. Then, his expression changed, fear draining out like run-off after a storm.

“Actually,” he mumbled into the covers, “it’s some _one_.”

 

***

 

War wasn't all death. In fact, it was a lot of living. Living concentrated into paper cups. For a while Ben went away. A lot of the dead went away. There was drinking, pool, and stories told around campfires. Colorful, bright, lights. Music. Disco. Hot food. Unlabeled liquor. Paisley colored shirts. Aviators. Pulsing beats. Poems slid under your tongue. Rolls of powdered heaven crushed into your palm.

Too much living.

The dances were always the best.

Everyone swayed too close. Alright, this was the seventies. Klaus could work with that. It could be worse, he reminded himself, this could be the 20’s, or the 1800’s. Besides, this was the military. Women were seldom around. Some men only danced with him when they were drunk. Some when they were stoned. Some only to jeer and then shove him off.

But Dave was always there. 

He had been since the bus. Not with forcefulness or particular guidance, but a certain tender aplomb. A nod of the head directing Klaus when he was unsure whether the mess hall was to the left or the right. A thoughtful conversation when he was sure the quietness of their room was going to eat him alive. A good record with a bad cup of coffee. With Dave it always came down to the hidden, quaint surprises; yellowed, dog-eared books of poetry, packets of rationed sugar, stacks of 75’s hidden under his mattress that he played when the others went out for extra training. 

Dave threw an arm around his shoulder.

The music pulsed; loud, synthesized, new. 

“Hey,” he teased. 

“Hey, yourself.”

Dave squeezed his hip. Leaning in, he shook his shoulders in an exaggerated manner.

Klaus took another sip. He backed up to the wall. He liked the closeness, the sweet, joking manner of Dave bumping and grinding against him. The way his hands traced his arms. It was far too easy to say the brushes were on accident; the sway of hips, the interlacing of their fingers for seconds longer than necessary. The room smelled like sweat and booze. But when Dave leaned in he always smelled clean; cotton, lilac, lavender. He was out of place. Klaus liked that, too. He breathed in. The scent calmed him until it didn’t. Until the sensation pulsed hot and needy under his skin as static-fuzz, electric-mayhem, perfection; Pretty boy, see the state I’m in. Pretty boy, wanna kiss the stars onto your skin. Pretty boy, pull the pin.

Dave spun him.

When he reeled back in they were standing toe to toe. The space between them was nothing more than a few inches. Klaus stared; his eyes traveled over the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way the faded, paisley-orange shirt hung slightly off his thin frame, the pooling warmth of his eyes.

Under these neon lights everything seemed to glow.

He leaned in for a sloppy, grenadine-syrup laced kiss.

Don’t pull back, please, _please_ , don’t pull back, he thought, clutching his hands in Dave’s hair.

Dave made no move to back away. “I was right when I first met you.”

“What?” Klaus was pretty sure his voice rose three octaves. The way he looked at him … like he might actually be worth something, like everything his family said wasn’t true. _Shit_. He was light-headed. He knew his cheeks were flushed. His knees might have knocked into Dave’s, but he would never admit it. Ever.

Dave smiles against his lips.“You’re definitely not from around here.”

Screw my knees, he thought. He wrapped a leg around Dave’s waist and threw his arms around his neck.

The lights swam above them, distant and forgotten; Klaus kissed him again feverishly.

 

***

 

Not everything was fun and games, though. Even when they weren’t on the field.

Dave tiptoed across the carpet. The rain droned on in C sharp minor, dispersed by sharp cracks of lightning, swift kicks of thunder. The wind slipped through bedsheets with ease. Taunting, cruel, ready to bite at moments notice. The room was unbearably cold. Klaus stared at the ceiling. He tried to ignore the voices he heard, but even with a watered down glass of scotch he could still See. The images were blurred. The sound distorted, one person bleeding into another. Numbed, but that didn't make his fear any better. There were ghosts everywhere tonight; singing, sighing, swaying soft as rain.

Ben sat perched on the bed, gave him a sardonic _tsk_ , then faded away.

Stop, Klaus wanted to say. Can’t you all just- _-_ But Ben was gone before he could even get the words out.

He looked down; the scratchy military-grade sheets, his bone-white knuckles clenching them, hands shaking as though he’d jabbed himself the wrong way with a needle.

Dave padded across the room quietly.

Too quietly.

Klaus jumped. Startled, he shook his head. He shot him an apologetic glance, then patted the space next to him.

The bed was just big enough for two.

Dave slid in, noiselessly curling his body around Klaus'.

“I--um,” he tried to explain, I thought you were another ghost. The rattle of thunder threatened to drown him out completely. “I didn’t even know it was you.”

Dave studied his face for a moment. He took Klaus’ hands, firmly grasping them in his own. He seemed to be contemplating what to say. 

“Withdrawal?” He asked finally. There was no judgement in his voice, only worry.

Would you look at that, Klaus thought, someone _outside_ the family is a mindreader for a change.

“Withdrawal,” he agreed with a panicked laughed. “I, um--nightmares. I see--” There had been no convenient time to explain everything. There was never _quite_ the right moment for him to say Hey babe, by the way, I’m from the future. I’m one of seven maniacs who have superpowers. But mine’s the absolute neatest because I got the two-for-one trauma special; I can talk to the dead _and_ they can talk back to me whenever they feel like it, too!

Dave shifted against his shoulder. He began to rub little circles along his arm. “You … you see dead people?”

Klaus snorted. Understatement of the year, he wanted to say. He folded himself inwards, burrowing into Dave’s chest.“Something like that.”

But it would never be that easy to explain. Nightmares were one thing. But these … _these_ were the result of a lifetime of trauma. Locked in a mausoleum at age four. Four. What the fuck, Dad, he thought, my head’s the Haunted Mansion Ride played on an infinite loop. Except there’s never an off switch, only the occasional log jam. Something flickered in the corner of his eye. Black, purple, blue. A wave of a  wandering soul. A soldier of no more than nineteen screaming for his brother. Death in the shape of youth.

Pretty boy, see the state I’m in.

“You should go,” he said softly, letting the words fall out. I’m not going to drag someone else down this road, he thought, he doesn’t need to know.

Dave pulled him closer. “Why would I do that? You’re _upset_.”

He ran his hands through Klaus’ hair, making a mess of the already tangled curls. Klaus loved the feeling. He found the repetition soothing. The motions were calming. They made him feel safe. Something his father nor mother were ever capable of doing for him.

He leaned into his touch, hating himself for needing physical affection. The warmth of the living. Closeness in a steady pulse and a soft pair of hands.

“Sometimes, I think you have no idea you’re getting into bed with Pandora’s box.”

Dave tilted his head up, looking him in the eye. No, he wasn’t angry. He was searching for signs of distress. He wanted to make sure Klaus was okay. This wasn’t an expression Klaus thought that he’d ever get used to. 

“That’s poetic, even for you,” he said in a hushed voice. “Let me write it down when you’re not constantly mocking me for reading. Or when we’re not casually dying, yeah?” 

Klaus turned one of his hands over. No white lines or needle marks. Instead, there were barely visible scars and smudges of graphite. The sight made him smile weakly. He pressed his lips to the pad of his thumb. Then, he placed Dave’s hand on his cheek, wishing he could keep it there forever.

“You can read to me,” he offered. He loved the sound of Dave’s voice; clear, low, slightly lilting. Never harsh. “Recite something off the top of your head, if you want. That might help.”

_“It was not death for I stood up and all the dead lie down …”_

 “Yeah, well, maybe they’re just tired.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you want me to read to you, I think _you wanna do the talking,”_

“You’re good at this,” he answered, mustering up a small laugh in response. “Must've had lots of siblings.”

“Only child. Dad died when I was young. Mom raised me, but she was always working. I had to learn to get used to an empty house pretty quickly.”

Dave shrugged, but the memory clearly brought him sorrow. “She was devastated when I went off.”

 Klaus nodded. “You should write her sometime, no?”

“She died last year. Influenza.”

“I’m--”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. Not everything always is.” Dave squinted, giving him a serious look. He kissed his temple. “We can talk more about that later. But now, what did you want to say before?”

For the rest of the night Klaus talked. Let the words flow out; ugly, fast, half-stuttered (not just a trait of Diego’s, but he’d gotten good at hiding it. Gotten good at shrieking to hide the fact he was constantly nervous, painfully shy somewhere underneath the performance he put on.) The stories came. He crafted nonfiction into fiction. There was the nightmare about a little, old, Russian lady with a bullet hole in her side. The young Danish prince with a poisoned sword. An eight-year old girl with tire tracks tattooed onto her face. A family with seven adopted children, one of which could speak to the dead. A father with the voice of The Reaper. A child raised rattling their chains like a neglected ghost.

He fell asleep waiting for Dave to tip-toe back, to abandon him, freak out like everyone else did. He pressed his nose into the crook of his neck. Breathe, Klaus thought, just breathe. He inhaled, cotton, lavender, a memory for when he would inevitably get up and leave. A fragment of something sweet as his eyelids fluttered closed. A daydream to combat the harsh, colorless light of dawn.

In the morning, he woke with his head on Dave’s chest, his arms still securely wrapped around him.

 

***

 

The others were away for the afternoon. Decent weather. Extra training for the more muscular and dedicated. Those who weren’t simply drafted (or brought here by time-travel anomaly's) stayed behind to relax. There was time. Time for books, music, story’s less haunted by ghosts, more populated by the mischief of the living. Time to be unseen.

Time to be soft.

Klaus sat in Dave’s lap, shedding his t-shirt quickly. He took his face in his hands, kissed him, kissed him, and then kissed him again for good measure.

“When we get home,” Dave mumbled, trailing a hand down his ribs. The action was feather-light and perfect.

Klaus keened, leaning into his touch. He parted his lips, letting Dave take control, all but writhing as he sucked delicate bruises down his neck.

 “When we get home,” Dave murmured in between kisses. His hands never left Klaus’ hair, playing with the tendril’s until he began to tug, (but only at Klaus’ insistence.) “We’ll go wherever we want. A house with big, open windows, filled with books …”

 “... by the sea,” Klaus added, panting against his mouth.

Dave held his waist. Fuck, if he wasn’t a gentleman, Klaus thought. He went slowly, blunt nails trailing up his thighs until he couldn’t take it any longer.

“More,” Klaus moaned, straddling him. An ache crept up in his stomach; hot, flushed, desperate.

Their rhythm was familiar by now. He was already hard, throbbing as he slid onto Dave’s cock. He loved having sex like this; feeling full, his arms around him, Dave’s eyes focused on him as he got himself off. 

Oh, the attention hurt. But hell, if it didn’t hurt wonderfully. There you are, Dave always said, pressing long, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, you don’t have to hide from me. You’re beautiful.

Dave cupped the back of his head. With a painful slowness he kissed him on the lips, making it worse. Heat built-up like a hand grenade. Pretty boy, wanna kiss the stars onto your skin.

Klaus moved faster, taking more of him in, spreading his legs wider.

The sheets didn’t feel so bad. Nothing did. Not when they had this. The room was empty, heavenly, theirs.

Dave wrapped his arms around his back, pulling him close. “Do you wanna ... ” He trailed off, tilting his head. For me, he asked silently, right now, would you do that?

“ _Y-yeah_ ,” Klaus grunted, picking up the pace. 

He wanted to cum with Dave kissing his jaw, their bodies fitted together. He wanted this; warm, real, and alive. He kissed Dave again, before burying his face in his shoulder. 

“I’m, I’m going to--”

 Dave rocked up into him. His hands ran over the scars and rope burns on his back, embracing him tenderly.

“That’s it, my love. Just so.” My love. The phrase scalded Klaus. The front row of fire. Bliss.

They wouldn’t miss me, but … His own words faded from his mind briefly. When we leave here, Dave had said. _We_. The word shimmered, a blinking, electric light behind his eyes as he went down harder, meeting each thrust. He felt unwound. The sensation of pleasure was endless. Dave’s fingers carded through the bangs on his forehead; softly, softly …  He came. Sharp, unexpected, black-out, shock-white, slick-silver that melted into pools of untempered moonlight. 

He felt wanted. Out-of-body dizziness. Loved.

For the rest of the afternoon there was nowhere to go. Weak sunlight spilled over their bodies. The moment was rare, but it was everything. Klaus traced the dappled patches of light that poured onto Dave’s chest. Like ichor, the blood of men who never die, he thought idly, remembering one of the stories Dave had read him.

Still spaced out, he could hear some of what Dave was saying. He was content to let half the words float past him.

“... my heart is fooled with fancies, being wise," Dave whispered in a lulled, reverent tone. He kissed him languidly. “Thus when I find new loveliness to praise, then will I think: ‘He moves before me now.’”

 “Did you write that?”

 He moved one of the stray curls out of Klaus’ eyes. “God, I wish. I wish I wrote that about you.”

Klaus smiled, blushed, pretended that he couldn’t feel his lungs burst into plumes of smoke. He’d never met someone kinder. He counted Dave’s heartbeats, staring up at his face in a way that, he hoped, wasn’t totally creepy. He wanted to maintain this position indefinitely; under sunlight, sheets, and words of old comrades. If monks can do it for meditation, he thought, gazing at the freckles on his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, kissing them one by one, then I could do it for desire.

Later that night darkness settled on their shoulders. Dave didn't get up to leave. His arms were solid, strong without ever making Klaus feel confined. His fingertips played jazz scales on Klaus’ skin. His breaths were quiet, steady, charming little ghosts hummed as music in his ear.

Klaus didn't have any nightmares. Instead, he fell into a weightless sleep. His dreams were filled with nothing but a cottage in the country, a closet full of paisley shirts, and a vinyl player that has an endless number of records you could dance to.

 

***

 

There was a routine to this. Fight. Hide. Lose yourself in fear. Enjoy the small, delicate breaks you're given. Fight. Hide. Lose yourself in more fear. Repeat. 

There was a routine to this and then … there wasn't.

The air kicked up into a smoke-screen. We'll make it, we have to, Klaus thought as another gun went off. We can go back, we can still go back, we can …

“Dave, c’mon let’s--” but the rest of the sentence changed instantly at the sight of Dave beside him. Cold. Pale. Lying flat on his back.

“Medic, _Medic!_ ” He heard the word ripped from his throat, wrenched, exploding into shrapnel and sinking right through his teeth.

“Dave,” he whispered. He threaded his hands under his head, intertwining their fingers in vain.

Klaus leaned closer. Dave didn't open his eyes. His body was still save for slight tremors. A threadbare heartbeat. 

 “At least let me say goodbye,” Klaus shrieked, weeping openly over his body, cradling him to his chest. “Please, let me say goodbye, I—”  I love him, he thought, but then he stopped. He wasn’t talking to God. We’re all too small to talk to God, he thought, there was never going to be time for that. He leaned down again, connecting their lips slowly, sweetly, as though Dave was alive and they were kissing for the first time.

“I love you,” the words rattled out like a stray bullet.

The tremors stopped. Dave's head fell back. The wound in the center of his chest trickled out leisurely as a waltz.

Klaus took his dog tags with him.

That night, he slept in an empty bed brim-full of nightmares.

Pretty boy, pull the pin.

 

 ***

 

Back at the mansion no one acts as though he was missing. Back there life is bright, full, and ... also on the brink of destruction. A lot happens in a year, he says, shrugging everyone off. He scowls. Draws his eyeliner on thicker. He doesn’t worry about the scars, the bruises, the endless lines on his body that he would cover with tattoos if he could just _stop_ getting thrown around like a rag doll for once in his fucking life. He laughs. His laugh is bitter, scary, strange. It echoes back and cracks something new in his reflection. He thinks about covering the mirror in his room. Draping sheets over the ornate, curled, wood of the glass' frame. There wasn't anything left he wanted to see now. Allison’s skirt, dusty, outgrown, still hangs in the back of his closet. That wasn’t fear, he wants to scream, I didn't know what fear was then.

 He walks through the kitchen in a trance.

 _You look like you’ve seen a_ … Diego jeers, but the comment doesn’t register. Allison fades in and out. He doesn’t remember if she talks to him or not. Vanya’s never there. She never has been, it seemed. That was just how their family was. Not a family at all.

 _Three days,_ Luther mutters, visibly exhausted. His broad shoulders sag comically. He looks like he’d never been dad’s favorite.

One war, Klaus thinks somberly, one war then another and another and …

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him aside. He shakes them off. He shakes them _all_ off. Yeah, well, a lot can happen in a year, he shouts, not caring if the phrase's iteration justifies his behavior, and promptly slams the door.

His room is dark. Childhood bedrooms amplify your worst fears. They always do. The Russian lady doesn’t visit tonight. Not the broken prince, the little girl, the firefighter, the grieving Philosophy professor, or the Yiddish nun whose name he always forgets. They’re silent. He has more control. He’s sober. The ropes helped. Diego was the only one to volunteer, tie him up and leave him there until he could think straight.

Diego’s an asshole, he concedes, but he isn’t so bad all the time.

The room is dusty. Diego is downstairs fighting someone. Probably Luther. Klaus sits cross-legged on the floor. He feels small, young in a terrible way. Like Reginald could walk through the door any second.

They’ve all left except …

Footsteps with no sound. A leather jacket. That wry, familiar voice with a half-frown.

“Ben,” he mutters, shocked. A little relieved, too.

 “Someone again, huh?”

"Yeah. At least, I've been trying. Nothing yet, though."

 Ben nods. “You can do it.”

Klaus shakes his head. “I can’t. I--” I'm not strong enough.

 _“Yes._ You can _._ ”

“I don’t know if I can, but I want to, I--it hurts. So much. _Fuck_.” I love him, he doesn’t say to Ben, I can’t _not_ say goodbye. I’m selfish. I need him. I--I can’t let him go.

He looks up, wanting to yell, to cry, to do something. Ben isn’t there. 

Great, he thinks, Just me now. 

Just me, he let's the words sting, closing his eyes. No. Enough of that. He ignores the tears threatening to spill over. Concentrate. Breathe. Think happy thoughts; the way Dave’s hand grasped his. His slender frame. The warmth of his eyes. The way he stayed, he always stayed. Jazz. Sunlight. His fingertips. Lavender. A cottage in the country.  

He wrenches on the dog-tags, clutching them as though he was drowning.

Conjure something, he pleads with himself, conjure _anything_ alive; a dance. a poem. a kiss.

Nothing.

He holds out his left hand. Goodbye, he thinks, maybe not now, but we’ll get to say goodbye. One day, I’ll figure it out. I promise you, Dave. I promise.   

He stops concentrating. He closes his left hand. Then, he feels a tug on the cool chain around his neck.

Brown eyes look at him in utter disbelief.

He surges forward, kissing Dave on the mouth; warm, soft, and a little weird, tingling from the energy it takes to summon him, but that hardly mattered.

Maybe we can still have those open windows, Klaus thinks, a fresh bout of tears dripping down his face, we’ll have the record player, the sea. All of it. Together.

Dave opens his mouth as though he’s about to ask the hundred necessary questions in this situation. That’s alright, Klaus realizes all of a sudden. They would have the time. They really would. He would stay sober. He’d voluntarily lock himself in a thousand mausoleums to have this. He would practice day and night without rest. Something dad never got him to do; not for power, discipline, or fame. 

But for love, he could do it. He could have this. He could have Dave.

Klaus holds up his right hand. He spreads his fingers, his tattooed palm gently caressing the other man’s cheek.

Not goodbye, Dave, he thinks, no. 

_Hello._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I really appreciate if you leave kudos/comments. My blog is @victorian-twink


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